First Time for Everything
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Sherlock is a hooker and John is a client. Blame the kinkmeme. Warning for dubcon as there is money involved. Oh and smut!
1. Chapter 1

First time for everything

* * *

Summary: Sherlock is a hooker and John is a client. Blame kinkmeme!

* * *

**Prompt:**

Sherlock is a high class hooker who is high in demand and paid by mostly rich folks to give them pleasure and bondage play.

John just returned from war and wants to forget the trauma he went through. Stamford, who actually been there once for riding crop fun time, suggests he goes to Sherlock's as maybe it will help his stress and even forget for a bit if he has some fun from an expert.

John is unsure but goes anyway because he has no other ideas. When Sherlock expects him, he assumes it will be like his other clients who want it quick and dirty. But John starts holding him, kissing him everywhere, being gentle and slow as if he's dealing with a virgin (which strangely makes Sherlock FEEL like one), focusing on giving Sherlock pleasure which none of his previous clients ever bothered to do.

Sherlock isn't used to being treated that way and becomes interested in John. John in turn becomes interested when Sherlock asks, "Afghanistan or Iran?"

The rest is history.

* * *

This was the mother of all bad ideas!

John stared up at the hotel from across the street, sure that he must have "paying for it" painted across his forehead in great big letters. Hopelessly he looked down at his cane, flexing his hand as he tried to draw himself together.

It had started in the most innocent of ways. He had bumped into Mike Stamford walking home one evening and they'd popped into the nearest pub to catch up.

John didn't even remember how it had come up, except for the fact that Mike had carelessly commented that John needed to "get laid."

John had stupidly nodded.

"Seriously?" Mike asked, forehead wrinkling in some confusion. "You're a soldier John, it does usually have some perks when out on the town."

It had. But there was a difference between being tanned, healthy, cocky and still in service to being discharged, scarred, damaged and accidently bringing up therapists. Besides the idea of a relationship terrified the life out of John at the moment. The mere mention of domesticity had his hand shaking out the Macarena and it didn't seem fair to lead anyone on.

And he wasn't daft enough to think that anyone looking for a casual hook-up would bother when there were far more appealing, less complicated options out there.

John had communicated all that with a shake of his head and an uncomfortable smile, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

It wasn't.

"What about a professional?"

John nearly spat out his drink. "I'm sorry?"

"Well," Mike shifted a little in his seat, "Think of it like a massage. You'd go to an expert for that kind of stress relief."

"Well-" the imagine in John's mind was of some barely out of high school kid dressed in tight clothes and he shuddered. "That seems a bit-"

"I went to one."

Oh god, he really wasn't drunk enough for this conversation! But there was a tiny bit of curiosity burning in his gut.

"And?" John asked hesitantly.

"Bloody expensive," Mike said and John almost felt himself relax a little, the earlier uncomfortable image vanishing to be replaced by some elegantly, terrifyingly beautiful woman.

"He figured out what I wanted like that," Mike snapped his fingers.

He?

John stared down at his pint, the image shifting once again.

"You're tempted," Mike said with a grin.

"Yeah," John nodded, "but…it's a pipe-dream," he grinned, shaking the mood away. "I'm desperately searching for a flat-share without burning the money on…that."

* * *

Within two weeks he was facing the very real possibility that he was going to end up living with Harry.

"Mike? What was that uh…service provider again?"

* * *

The hotel was almost spotless. Sherlock could only read the last two occupants of the room (business man and then adulterous couple)which was irritating because then he'd have less to focus on if the latest client turned out to be dull.

They all were recently.

The fact that this John Watson was a recommendation of Mike Stamford made the scenario even more likely. Stamford had a thing for the crop, though it had taken Sherlock two minutes to work out Stamford was a switch and ashamed of both variations.

Sherlock would bet that Stamford hadn't detailed their session to this John Watson.

He'd filled the bedside table with varying degrees of "aids". The further down one went through the three drawers the more…explicit the toys became.

People always seemed to think their kinks were so terrible, so different and shocking. There had been a time when Sherlock had delighted in it; in the power he had over people by giving them everything they so desperately wanted. There had been a sinful pleasure in watching Mycroft's pained expression every time Sherlock referenced his job and clients (usually to some dull politician who was secretly aching for a flogging and really, why not network?).

But sex was like anything else. Too much of something simply took away the mystique, the interest.

John Watson. Such a boring, sensible name.

Sherlock lit up on the tiny balcony, staring out at London.

* * *

The knock at the door was firm, precise and ordered. A little too ordered to be entirely natural. The man was nervous then (first time?) but determined (dominant?).

Sherlock opened the door, dressed in a casual suit. Regulars usually expected ease of access but some enjoyed the build -up.

Stripping was extra.

The man in front of him immediately raised his eyes to the ceiling and squared himself a little.

Military stance?

Cane. Though the injury seemed minimal from the way he was standing. Inexpensive clothes, evidence of some weight loss.

Lack of funds? The man seemed too practical to be spending money on such an extravagance.

Not entirely dull then.

"John?" Sherlock asked smoothly.

There was a sharp nod and dark…blue or hazel eyes glanced at him, sweeping over Sherlock and then at the room. "Yes," John suddenly seemed to come back to himself. "Yes."

Sherlock stepped aside, gesturing John in. The injury suddenly seemed far more severe, John leaned on the cane heavily as he walked.

Psychosomatic?

Possibly. More data needed.

Sherlock closed the door and eyed up the tension in John's shoulders, the nervous glances and the deliberate way his eyes darted to the exits.

Military was looking more and more likely.

"You haven't done this before?" Sherlock asked locking the door.

"No," John looked uncomfortable as he stood in the room and for a moment it seemed as if he was about to say more and then looked around again.

Clients usually that tense responded well to being seduced. But John was eyeing him warily as if Sherlock was about to pounce.

A frank, practical man.

"Why come here then?" Sherlock asked, as if they'd met by far more common means.

"Apparently I need to get laid," John said swallowing and then grinning.

Confidence issues? Stress? Yes. Stress. And wry humour.

"You're wearing too many clothes for that," Sherlock declared stepping forward.

There was a flicker of hesitation as John glanced once more at Sherlock, then with a shaky nod John unzipped his jacket, awkward with the cane.

Carefully, Sherlock walked forward, hand closing over the cane and tugging it slowly from John's hand. Automatically John shifted his weight, most of it on his uninjured leg now and, despite the fact that John must be aware he was in a far more precarious position without the cane, he seemed to relax a little.

Interesting.

John removed his jacket as Sherlock started on the buttons of his shirt, feeling John's eyes fix on his face.

"You are intimidatingly good looking," John said suddenly as he dropped his jacket to the floor.

Unusual though the compliment was, it made Sherlock almost pause. There was an odd amount of genuine warmth in John's voice.

Strange.

The comment had thrown him and Sherlock blinked at the next button. By now John should have stiffened up in displeasure at not hearing a soothing return compliment but John seemed to have relaxed even further.

Shirt loose, Sherlock smoothed his hands against the soft skin of John's stomach. He'd recently lost quite a bit of toned muscle that might account for his sudden confidence issues. Lifting his hands Sherlock stroked the sides, the pectoral muscles and up.

"Wait."

Startled Sherlock paused, mind racing.

"I…" John stared at the wall. "There's a scar. It's recent but it's fine. Pretty much healed now in fact. You can…you can avoid it."

Orders or a suggestion?

Surely an order. John had to be aware that he had paid for this night. But it had sounded more like embarrassment.

Sherlock nodded in a noncommittal manner, continuing to push the shirt off.

As the cheap material thudded to the floor, Sherlock glanced at the shoulder. The web of scarring looked fascinatingly complex, all ridges and odd shapes that made him want to lean in and-

John shifted.

Of course. Berating himself Sherlock leaned down to breathe in John's neck, nuzzling carefully but managing to keep the scar in sight, captivated despite himself.

The tension wasn't fading and he wanted a proper look at the scar.

"On the bed," Sherlock murmured. "Face down."

John pulled back and glanced down at his trousers and Sherlock's clothes with some confusion.

"A massage," Sherlock offered, herding him back. "To help you."

To his surprise John laughed, a delighted sound that was unusual to hear in Sherlock's line of work. "Sorry, I…Mike likened this to getting a professional massage."

Sherlock raised an unimpressed eyebrow, but his lips quirked in amusement.

"Right," John turned and climbed onto the bed, his leg giving him little difficulty.

The plan was marvellous. Sherlock reached into the top drawer, pulled out some massage oil and smoothed it over John's skin, staring at what must be the exit wound as he sat over John.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Under him John tensed and turned his head to one side. "How-"

"It's a bullet wound." Clients disliked having their lives laid out like Sunday dinner. But John seemed…

"You hold yourself with military bearing, you are tanned but not below the wrist. You have a psychosomatic limp and have been shot. Combined there are two options as to where you could have been stationed. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"That's…brilliant," John said, relaxing as Sherlock smoothed his hands over the skin on his lower back.

"Really?" Sherlock asked smoothing a thumb over a crescent shaped scar. "Most people dislike it."

John shook his head into the pillow. "No, it's amazing," he sounded as if he were smiling. "Can you do that with anyone?"

"Yes." Sherlock dared his hands higher, fingers just skimming the bottom of the scarred area.

"What else can you tell?"

"I can say anything?" Sherlock checked.

A nod.

Sherlock pressed his hands into the warm muscled back, mind dancing suddenly and let himself go.

"You've been invalided out of the army but miss the lifestyle, in particular the danger. Being back makes you feel uncomfortable, unsure. Your therapist hasn't picked up on this at all and is likely misdiagnosing you. Fire her, she's a moron. You are not a wealthy man and meticulous with your savings so I can assume that something has happened recently, some sacrifice that has convinced you to have one last treat."

His hands traced the scar. If John called an end to the session he may as well touch the most interesting part of him.

"How-"

How dare you? Dull.

"-can you possibly know all of that?" John asked sounding stunned and without anger and only the smallest tinge of embarrassment.

Sherlock continued to move his fingers. "I observed you," he said carefully.

John shifted and, with some reluctance, Sherlock let him move under him, turning until they were facing each other, John looking oddly…fond?

"That really is amazing," John said, reaching up to stroke an errant curl from Sherlock's face, fingertips tracing the skin of Sherlock's cheek as his eyes darkened a little.

Sherlock leaned down hand by John's head as he pressed his lips to John's.

He rarely kissed. Not because of some whore's code but because when people had paid that much for an evening they rarely wanted to waste it on kissing.

Waste, kissing and John Watson were not to be used in the same sentence.

It was an art. A delicious, spine-tingling art.

Sherlock could barely remember the last time he had been so aroused without having a hand anywhere near his cock. No, aroused was the wrong word maybe. Desperate, eager, wanting. They were far better words.

A hand buried itself in his hair, running fingers through strands in a way that tugged but didn't feel forceful or possessive, just exploratory. The other hand was fumbling eagerly with his shirt buttons.

Sherlock pulled away, sitting up and intending to give John a show (for free, he could pick and choose such things) but John sat up with him, pressing kisses down Sherlock's chest as he opened up the shirt front.

"You're like a painting," John murmured. "One of those rare ones that don't quite look real," he added, kissing up Sherlock's neck hungrily and helping Sherlock slide the shirt off.

Their height difference meant it was easy for John to stay attached to his neck, nipping and kissing while his hands smoothed over Sherlock's naked torso in gentle almost reverent strokes. Slow and languid rather than the frantic pace Sherlock was used to.

The only real part of John that Sherlock could reach was his back and he had a wonderful view of that scar again. In all honesty, it seemed that he was getting far more out of this position that John was.

Any moment now John would realise and flip them, putting Sherlock's mouth and hands to good use. Any second.

But John seemed content with their position.

"You okay?" John asked against his skin, pulling back a little with a startling amount of honesty.

Sherlock nodded. This was uncomfortable he decided.

Deliberately he placed his fingers on the scar, tracing the lines and ridges.

John just looked surprised and a shy smile peeked out before he pressed his lips softly to Sherlock's collarbone.

Well that backfired spectacularly.

"Can I…?" John's hands had lowered to the waist of Sherlock's trousers.

Of course he bloody could! He'd bought the rights to it for heaven's sake!

But Sherlock just nodded, floored that John had even thought to ask. A second later, John's hands ducked under the trouser material, fingers stretching and stroking leisurely and John hummed a pleased sound into Sherlock's skin.

This was odd.

Disliking the strangeness of the situation, Sherlock crawled back a little and John let him, staring at him curiously and then with a raised eyebrow as Sherlock started to undo John's belt buckle. John's adams-apple bobbed with nerves.

Tugging the trousers and boxers down, Sherlock let his gaze follow the material over strong thighs, sweet knees, interesting scars and curling toes, then kissed his way back up, eager for John to relax again.

And really, this was the most enjoyable session he'd had in months…years even.

From his pocket he pulled out a condom and readied himself for the usual debate.

"You do know it needs to go on to be of use?" John gasped, bunching a pillow under his head.

Sherlock placed the condom in his mouth and rolled his body up as his tongue and lips worked the latex onto John whose mouth had dropped open.

No arguments about condoms, even during fellatio. Interesting…bad experience? Already infected? Doctor?

The last made him glance at John's hands and he lowered his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and running his tongue in the best patterns. They were just on the side of dryness though that could be from harsh condition in the sun rather than repeated washes with anti-bacterial wash. The nails were cut short and ruthlessly clean.

Sherlock debated the ideas back and forth, mouth on automatic as he worked out this latest puzzle.

John was silent above him.

That was unusual.

Snapping his attention up, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John who suddenly gasped and the cock in Sherlock's mouth twitched and hardened a little more.

John reached down, fingers tracing Sherlock's jaw and gently pushing him back.

"Should I leave that on?" Sherlock purred.

But John seemed oblivious to the attempt of seduction and just blinked, first at him, then at his cock. "Uh…"

"Or do you prefer the other option?" Sherlock asked letting his finger trail down a little to rest underneath John's balls.

John's cheeks flushed even further. "I…I…Christ, it's like being in a sweet shop," John grinned.

John was under stress, frustrated and eager to forget. Sherlock smiled wolfishly.

"Fuck me," he suggested.

Wide eyes and a sudden nod was the reaction Sherlock received. "That…yeah!" John couldn't seem to stop nodding.

Sherlock leaned forward as if to kiss John and darted his hand out for the top drawer. John's eyes followed his mouth and then his hand…then the eyes nearly fell out of their sockets.

"Bloody hell!" John murmured, staring at the drawer and shifting up to get a better look. "That's…thorough!"

He seemed to recognise them, but also seemed taken aback by actually having them in the room. An entirely manual client then…that was rather novel! Amused, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's neck as he reached for the lube.

"You should see the other drawers."

Wait…had he just said that? Made a joke?

Confused he pulled back just in time to see John's sudden twelve year old mischievous boy grin as he reached for the drawer below.

Then his mouth dropped.

"So you do-"

"Yes." Sherlock sat back on his heels.

John stared at the fetish equipment and then shut it, eyeing up the last drawer. "I probably don't want to open that, do I?"

Sherlock shook his head and John flashed him a smile, reaching to take the lube from Sherlock with a sweet press to his lips.

"Lie down," John…suggested. Suggested? Still off balance, Sherlock rolled off of John and lay so they were momentarily side by side, unbuttoning his trousers until John finished the job and yanked them off of him.

"You clean?" John asked settling himself between Sherlock's legs.

"Condoms-"

"Hygienically clean," John seemed to take no offence and there were still no indications that he was annoyed at the rue.

"Yes." Of course he was, it was his bloody job after-

John smiled and leaned down, his tongue tracing a path as his hands lifted Sherlock's thighs and-

A few clients had done this to him. Usually clients with daddy fetishes or bondage would rim him ruthlessly. It was very odd to not be restrained or role playing in some-way. John's tongue was careful, not pushing or demanding just…tasting?

"Condom?" John said holding up his hand.

Doctor.

Sherlock reached for the drawer again and handed one over to John who put it over his tongue and then proceeded to use both tongue, fingers and lube to open Sherlock up. It was delicious and Sherlock let his hand flutter over John's head, desperate to writhe and press down. There were a few flutters towards his prostate and then a gentle massage that was perfect in its light touch. Not too over stimulating just…teasingly wonderful.

There was a moment when Sherlock was perfectly aware he'd been stretched more than enough and tapped at John's head. But John had just shook his hair and Sherlock had almost felt the smug grin against his skin.

Then a hand stroked at his cock lightly.

"Do you want me to come?" Sherlock asked arching slightly.

The hand froze and seconds later John's eyes looked at him curiously, a frown forming between his eyes.

"Is that the aim of this?" Sherlock asked, trying to clarify.

There was a flicker of annoyance and John pulled back, pulling the condom off his tongue and tossing it in the direction of the bin. "Do you want to come?" he asked, looking slightly confused.

How the hell was he meant to answer that question?

Seeing that there were clearly not on the same page, John seemed to shake himself. "If it's good then come, if it isn't then don't?" he asked slowly, as if thrown that he had to explain that basic rule.

Sherlock stared at him and then nodded.

"Want me to continue?" John asked gesturing at Sherlock's splayed thighs.

"I want you in me," Sherlock replied, surprising himself as to how true that was.

John crawled forward and it was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to insist they switched positions, that Sherlock ride John because of the leg…but the leg seemed to be holding up fine and bringing that up would shake John…

So Sherlock, feeling odd in this position, with this man, as if he were some virgin on their wedding night, shifted and spread his legs as John slathered himself with lube and then braced a hand by Sherlock's head and pushed.

Their faces were so close that Sherlock could see the way John's breath hitched in his throat and the slightly awed, dazed look as he glanced down between them, watching himself push into Sherlock.

"You okay?" John asked on a shaking breath looking back up and pausing, barely a third of the way in.

"It's hardly my first time," Sherlock snapped.

"Right," that confused look had returned. "That doesn't really answer my question though."

And then the man's muscles flexed as if to pull out. So Sherlock instantly wrapped his legs around John's waist and smirked arrogantly up at him which just seemed to make John laugh.

"Right, I get it," John pushed in a bit further and shook slightly.

Sherlock knew technique. He knew how to massage a cock with his muscles and could create erotic dirty talk in his sleep. But this was…sex. This wasn't automatic, this was impossible to look away from. Impossible to disconnect and study and manipulate.

"You like slow," Sherlock murmured as John found a pace finally.

"Feels decadent," John nipped at his mouth. "Haven't been able to do it this slow in years."

Pride bubbled in Sherlock's chest, even though he'd had very little control throughout the night's proceedings. "How long has it been?" he asked.

"Since I had slow sex or any sex?" John asked, sounding amused.

When was the last time he'd had a conversation like this during sex? When had been the last time he hadn't performed?

Wait…

"How long since you've had sex?" Sherlock asked, suddenly curious.

"Two years," John said sounding a little embarrassed by that fact, gasping against Sherlock.

Two years? Who the hell was this slow, this thoughtful when they'd not fucked in two years?

"You're doing very well," Sherlock muttered and John actually giggled against him, raising his head to look at Sherlock.

He looked so alive, so interesting and worthwhile. Sherlock pulled him down for a kiss and John moaned eagerly into it as Sherlock shifted slightly to give John a better angle.

They kissed and stroked at each other, Sherlock finally feeling some barrier stutter within him as he relaxed.

"Can I…?" John asked in between long languid kisses.

"You'd better," Sherlock muttered and groaned in relief when John picked up the pace. Before long it was a delightful crash of perfect thrusts and a hand wrapping around his cock, tugging in a fantastic rhythm.

Within minutes Sherlock was shattering against John, panting and writhing as he came and then sinking back into the pillows, trying to catch his breath to give John that good a-

But John pulled out and sat up.

Had he orgasmed? It was a little bit professionally embarrassing to admit Sherlock hadn't got a clue what had happened; his orgasm had been like a steam train crashing into him.

"Bathroom?" John asked softly.

Sherlock pointed and John nodded, the limp suddenly severe as he made his way across the room, tossing the condom into the bin as he went.

The second the door closed, Sherlock scrambled out of the bed and looked into the bin.

John hadn't come.

* * *

The reason for that was evident the moment John stepped out of the bathroom, shoulder held at a stiff awkward angle and his face pulled tight with pain. The idiotic man had been braced on his hand for most of their long drawn out intercourse.

What had he been thinking?

"Lie on the floor," Sherlock ordered imperiously as he stood up, still naked.

"Uh…" John's eyes flickered to the clock.

"Now."

With the look of someone who clearly thought they had nothing better to do, John awkwardly lowered himself to the floor.

"On your back."

John obeyed and Sherlock straddled him, John's hands immediately moving to his hips. Frustrated, Sherlock grabbed his left arm and thudded it onto the floor so it lay straight and adjusted John's neck causing John to groan as his spine finally lay flat and stopped putting so much pressure on his shoulder.

Then Sherlock dug his fingers in, hard as he could and John whimpered.

"Bad?" Sherlock asked, not moving his fingers.

"Good bad," John assured him, panting out his relief. "How do you know how to deal with muscle spasm?"

"I get bored," Sherlock replied, shifting so he was more comfortable.

"Yeah," John turned as if to look at the bed but Sherlock caught his chin, preventing the movement and minutely adjusted the pressure of his fingers. "Sorry, that must have been uh…vanilla?" John asked, trying the word out.

"Vanilla implies something normal." Sherlock frowned as the muscles fluttered under his fingers and John pulled a face, "That, for me, was probably my most kinky session in years."

John huffed a laugh and hissed. "So you…usually are a lot more uh…adventurous in the bedroom."

Bedroom, alley wall, swimming pool. Location was hardly ever important. "Yes."

"You enjoy it?"

Sherlock shrugged, not really sure how to answer that. "I used to," he said eventually.

"Why…Sorry," John raised his eyes to the ceiling, a small whimper escaping him as Sherlock changed his grip.

"Why did I start?" Sherlock asked, used to the question. "I'm good at it."

"Yeah, I noticed," John didn't smile properly.

"It annoys my brother."

Wait, he hadn't intended to say that!

"I can sympathise with that feeling," John muttered and curled a little as if wanting to go foetal when the muscles rebelled again.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said after a moment, wanting to leave the subject.

"Yeah," John didn't seem to feel the need to bother asking how Sherlock had known that. "Surgeon."

Sherlock stared at the wound. "You're not a normal one."

John peeped an eye open, "Huh?"

"You were shot. The last person to get shot under a red cross badge was in a helicopter and the bullet clipped them. This was a killing shot; you were aimed at. If you had been working as a doctor the media would have been up in arms about it. You…" Sherlock tilted his head. "Why weren't you identifying as a doctor?"

John smiled. "I changed careers. Worked off my time with the army for training me as a surgeon and then became a career soldier."

"Why?"

John moved as if he was going to shrug and Sherlock glared, stopping him. "I…" John took a deep breath instead. "I signed up to save people. Problem is though that by the time the soldiers get down to us most of the damage is done. It's always a battle against time. I got sick of seeing so many come back permanently injured when I could have…" John's jaw clenched. "I switched. No-one was gonna turn down the chance of having an experienced army doctor out in the field, even if that wasn't officially my title anymore."

"You're mad," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah, so I've been told." John swallowed, "You don't have to do this."

"I know."

"Right…but it's almost midnight."

So?

"You've been off the clock for almost an hour."

Off the clock? Sherlock turned to look around…ah…the email he'd sent to John before.

"My later appointment cancelled," Sherlock said eventually. "And you didn't orgasm."

"It's fine."

"Stay," Sherlock insisted. "Stay."

"I can't afford," John looked away and sighed. "Believe me, I want to but-"

He wanted to? Sherlock peeked with even more curiosity.

There was no way he was letting John out of his sight until he had ceased to be interesting.

"Stay," Sherlock pressed a kiss to his lips. "No charge."

"Why?" John asked softly, when Sherlock pulled back.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock said, leaning back. "And that's brilliant."


	2. Chapter 2

Hi,

Probably the last chapter in this because I have no idea where to go with it, but someone did point out that it was a travesty that poor John hadn't come yet!

Also, OFP should be updated on wednesday!

* * *

His last client had been so dull that Sherlock had actually had to fight himself from falling asleep out of sheer defence. Still, the man had seemed happy enough at the end of it (moron) and hadn't noticed a thing.

That there were people in the world like that who had the money to afford him was painful, especially when…

Slipping into a robe, Sherlock wandered around the hotel room thoughtfully. It hadn't been a rough session or exerting. And he still had the room for the night.

Stopping at the window, he looked down at the street below. It had turned eleven o clock a few minutes ago and he could see the Friday night crowds walking below. More than usual and not quite so many stumbling; the theatre two minutes away must have emptied out then.

It was all so excruciatingly predictable. Thoughtfully, his hand traced his phone, slipping through the contacts and then lingering.

John Watson.

Maybe this time, if he called John and made it clear that this was a more equal meeting and no money would be exchanging hands, John would be different, normal, boring and would stop dogging his thoughts.

And if not, well then, at least Sherlock wouldn't be bored.

* * *

"You said it was urgent," John said as Sherlock opened the door.

He was panting, hair slightly darker from sweat having…

Sherlock smirked. "I had no idea being urgently summoned was the best cure for a psychosomatic limp."

There was a blink and, gaping, John looked down.

Stupid man. But the thought came to Sherlock fondly.

"I…" John looked up and suddenly glared. "You made it sound like you were in danger," he said accusingly.

"I am. I'm bored."

"I…" John rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Client cancel?"

"No. He was just dull."

John clicked his tongue. "Why call me? You know I can't afford…not again."

"We have a hotel room, paid for." Sherlock wandered over to the bar to pour John a drink. "We have a bed, mostly unused." The client's stamina had been awful. "And I am naked. I do hate waste."

"I can't-"

"Did I ask for payment?" Sherlock asked, handing him the glass. "I'm bored and want to do something."

"Do 'something'?" John asked, taking a sip and looking amused. "I'm something now, am I?"

"Call it professional pride," Sherlock purred. "You paid for a service last time and yet failed to get what you came here for."

John shot him a confused look. "I…are you sure you're not confusing me with someone else? We had sex. Amazing sex," he added, a little wistfully.

"You failed to orgasm."

"Doesn't mean it wasn't good sex," John said calmly.

Most people would disagree with him. Watching him closely, Sherlock pulled at the zip of John's jacket, observing the dark blue eyes as they flickered down to watch.

"I will make you scream," Sherlock promised.

John's mouth firmed and Sherlock had an odd premonition of what was about to come out of his mouth, bizarre though it was.

"No," John said firmly.

Despite knowing it was coming, Sherlock still gaped at him. "No?" he asked blankly. "No? John you are aware that people pay thousands of pounds for the pleasure of my company-"

"I doubt that," John said, pulling away and sipping his drink. "They pay for your body and your mind."

That…oddly hurt. "They're worth it," he argued.

"I know," John nodded. "I also know that when someone looks surprised at you because you don't treat them like a toy in bed, it's generally a good idea to stay clear when you actually like the person."

"Like?" Sherlock asked, hating the generic word. What exactly did John mean by 'like'?

John shrugged, taking the comment the wrong way; as if Sherlock was annoyed with the idea rather than the lack of clarity in his phrasing.

"So," John sighed, looking away. "If there's nothing else-"

Sherlock pounced.

Herding the man against the wall, Sherlock braced his hands either side of John, delighting in the way the man tensed and looked at them in the manner of one who could break away if he wanted to and was simply trying to work out _if_ he wanted to.

Slowly.

It had been years since he'd had to seduce someone. Letting his breath ghost over John's lips, he sighed. "Let me think," he murmured, letting his voice rumble thoughtfully. "Anything else?"

John's breath hitched and his eyes seemed utterly fixed on Sherlock's mouth.

Pressing up against him, knowing that the robe's loose ties were slipping open, Sherlock hummed , ducking his head down as if the answer might be in John's neck.

He didn't make contact though; just let his proximity and the dare of it make John shiver with possibilities.

"Why?" John asked quietly. "You can have anyone. You could have anyone you wanted and still get paid. Why me?"

"Dull," Sherlock skimmed his breath back up John's neck and to his ear. "You should be so dull, so ordinary and yet…" he shook his head. "I can't work it out."

"So I'm a puzzle?" John asked.

"My puzzle," Sherlock murmured, letting his lips faintly brush the line of John's jaw.

John wavered.

"I want you," Sherlock breathed against his lips.

John pushed forward a little bit to make contact.

His lips were surprisingly cold from the whiskey; a pleasant change in temperature from the warm room, and they were wet, slippery and perfect. Hand tried to slip under his robe and tug it off, but Sherlock caught them and slammed them back against the wall.

"My rules this time," he said, pulling away from the kiss.

John's pupils were blown as he thudded his head back against the wall and let out a strangled groan. "You're gonna kill me," he murmured.

* * *

Without the money involved it was like unleashing a wild beast. If John had thought before that Sherlock Holmes was fantastic in bed, then this was a revelation.

Last time John had surprised him; that had been obvious from the start. Now, Sherlock was ahead of the game, expecting to be surprised and determined not to falter again.

He'd half expected Sherlock to rummage around in the drawers next to the bed and pull out some of his…toys? But Sherlock, as if taking the dare from their time before, ignored them all and had still made John feel as if he were being taken apart from the inside out.

And that was before Sherlock pushed inside of him, hands covering John's as he licked a strip of John's neck.

Dazed, John tightened his fingers where they were linked with Sherlock's feeling as if he were seconds from shattering to pieces. Behind him, he could feel Sherlock's breathe on the skin he had just licked and the breeze of it made him shiver and gasp.

Just the smallest bit of movement made John groan.

"Too much?" Sherlock asked, his tongue starting to trace one of the scars on John's shoulder.

Not trusting himself to speak, John shook his head. It was a gorgeous sensation and he tried to tug his hand from Sherlock's to touch himself.

Sherlock's fingers tightened in response and John felt him chuckle. "Patience is a virtue."

"Says you," John muttered, "Need me urgently, my arse!"

Sherlock thrust pointedly. "I did. I do."

That didn't help. Swimming with the sensation, John crashed his head forward on the pillow and whined into it. Sherlock's fingers let go of his right hand and came up to cup his throat.

"No, stay up," Sherlock chided, his hand pushing John back up properly and his other hand let go of John's left hand and pressed into the arch of John's back.

John nearly screamed when the slight change in angle did wonderful things to his prostate. Behind him, Sherlock hissed in pleasure.

"So tight," he breathed, sounding slightly amazed by it.

"Been years," John managed to stammer out, trying with everything he had to keep his head up and from the pillow.

"How many?"

For a prostitute, Sherlock seemed oddly pleased and possessive about his lack of sex.

"This?" John tried to bring the world back into focus to think. "About…god…uh…just under a decade or so."

Sherlock slowed a little.

"Move," John hissed.

And the wonderful, delicious man obeyed for once.

* * *

John, blissed out from his orgasm (he'd managed that), lay on the bed, panting.

It hadn't worked.

Bewildered, Sherlock stared at him trying to work out exactly why he wanted more.

It was idiotic. Stupid in the extreme. Foolish that he wanted to lay down beside John and find out if all his deductions were correct.

John turned his head curiously. "You okay?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Oh!" A flush burned John's cheeks. "Yeah, right. Finished now," he sat up awkwardly.

"Yes." This should be it, this should be- "I have a client that always leaves early for a business trip on the twelve."

Where had that come from? Why had he said-

John pulled his knees up to his chest. "I…what are you asking me?" he asked slowly.

"We have good sex. That's surprisingly rare in my line of work. I'm enjoying the reminder."

"So…" John rubbed his chin on his knee. "I'm your 'booty call'?"

"If you wish to insist on calling it that." Preferably not in front of Sherlock.

John tutted under his breath and reached forward to trace Sherlock's collarbone.

Then he pressed down on a love-bite.

"Can't," John sighed and pulled his hand back. "I really can't do that. I'm sorry."

"Monotony is overrated," Sherlock said catching his eyes. "Or are you simply too normal to ignore what society says on the matter?"

John pulled his hand away, anger lighting his gaze. "Says the man who become a whore just to see what his brother had to say on the matter."

With a hiss Sherlock pulled away. "Leave," he ordered.

John stood with a sigh and reached for his jeans.

"Would you have me give this up, just so I could fuck you?" Sherlock said, watching him and annoyed by the sudden passivity John was displaying.

"No," John started to do the belt. "I'm hardly that good," he added with a sigh.

"Then your solution?"

"I don't have one," John paused as he reached for his shirt. "I just know…A month or two down the line Sherlock and I couldn't possibly share you with anyone else."

That was oddly…Sherlock didn't even know how he felt about it.

"You'll come," he decided, watching John fiddle with his shirt. "If I ask you to, you'll come."

"And if I asked you not to do that to me?" John asked, looking at him seriously.

"I am not that adept at concerning myself with the feelings of others," Sherlock said slowly.

John nodded with a sigh. "Well, for both our sakes we had better hope that I have some will power then."

And with that he slipped his shoes on, gathered his keys and turned to the door.

"You thought I was in danger and yet you came?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John hesitated and then nodded. "Yeah?"

Sherlock smiled. "You'll come. You'll always come."


End file.
